by Greg Cox
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Dedicated to Leonard Nimoy, for nearly fifty years of inspiration
Prologue
“Make a wish,” his mother said.
Seven candles burned atop the cake, despite the fact that neither light nor heat was required under the present circumstances. An overhanging eave provided shade from the noonday sun as Spock and his mother occupied a carved sandstone balcony overlooking the family estate on the outskirts of ShiKahr. In the distance, beyond the gates, rocky plains stretched all the way to the forbidding granite mountains looming on the horizon beneath a cloudless orange sky. The day was exceedingly warm, even by Vulcan standards. A le-matya howled ferociously somewhere in the hills.
“Wishes are illogical,” Spock said.
The boy sat across from his mother at an elegantly wrought marble table that seemed to flow upward from the tiled floor of the balcony. He wore a lightweight white linen robe that he liked to think made him look more adult . . . and Vulcan. Wary eyes regarded the frosted chocolate cake with suspicion, as though it was a trick intended to lure him from his chosen path. His mother was an excellent cook, however, and he had to admit that the cake appeared appetizing, even with the absurd and unnecessary candles dripping wax onto the icing.
“I know,” his mother replied patiently, as she often did. A silken wimple helped to shield her delicate human features from the searing Vulcan sun. A lock of auburn hair escaped the edge of the headdress and she deftly tucked it back into place. Hazel eyes gazed affectionately at her son. “It’s simply a human custom.”
“But it makes no sense even as superstition,” he protested. “There is no internal logic or consistency. What does the blowing out of candles have to do with the granting of wishes, even if such things were possible? How is extinguishing combustion intended to produce the desired effect?”
“It’s not meant to make sense,” she said, attempting to explain. “Think of it as a meditative exercise, for the purpose of focusing one’s attention on one’s own needs and desires.” She contemplated the boy, whose stoic expression gave away little of his inner feelings. “Isn’t there anything you wish for, Spock, even it’s not entirely logical?”
He pondered the question. It was true that he aspired to prove himself in the kahs-wan, the traditional survival test expected of all Vulcan youths of his age. His own time of testing would be upon him soon, but he knew that, ultimately, the outcome would be decided solely by his abilities, not any private hopes or fears. He could think of only one honest answer to his mother’s query.
“I wish not to disappoint you and Father.”
She reached across the table and placed her hand gently over his. “You could never disappoint me, Spock.”
“Even if I do not blow out the candles?” He allowed his mother’s hand to rest atop his; as human gestures of affection went, it was an easy lapse to overlook. “Or embrace similar human customs and rituals?”
This was becoming a frequent dilemma for him, and ever more so as he grew older and was expected to gain greater mastery of his shameful human emotions. Although he was determined to prove himself as Vulcan as any of his peers, none of whom had ever taken any note of his birthday, he did not wish his mother to think that he thought any less of her because of her humanity; she was merely being true to her own nature, as was only logical. He knew that his mother had baked the cake with her own hands, as she did every year, and that it would please her if he finally welcomed the gesture. Although his father was away on an important diplomatic mission, Spock could all too easily imagine Sarek watching silently in judgment, waiting sternly to see if Spock strayed from the way of his Vulcan forefathers. He saw his father sighing and shaking his head.
“Would that truly be so terrible, Spock?” his mother asked. “Enjoying a harmless human tradition?” He thought he detected a note of sadness in her voice. “Part of you is human, Spock. You will always be a child of two worlds.”
“You are mistaken,” he replied, as gently as he could. “I am and always will be Vulcan.”
“Very well, then. If that is your choice.”
She leaned forward and blew out the candles herself. Seven tiny flames flickered and died.
Spock experienced an all-too-familiar twinge of guilt, which required effort to suppress. His mother was human after all, which meant that she had feelings to hurt.
“Did . . . did you make a wish?” he asked.
She nodded. “I did.”
“And may I ask what it was?”
She gave him a bittersweet smile. “I wished what all mothers wish: for you to find peace and happiness, no matter what path you choose.”
He could hardly begrudge her such a selfless wish. “And long life and prosperity?”
“That too,” she said.
A dry desert breeze carried the aroma of the cake to his nostrils. He thought of all the effort she had clearly put into it, and on his behalf.
“It would be illogical to let this cake go to waste,” he observed. “May we eat now?”
Her smile brightened.
“Absolutely.” She cut him a large slice and placed it on a plate, which she slid across the table to him. “Help yourself.”
Spock allowed himself a taste, merely for his mother’s sake, of course.
But he was glad that his father was not there to watch.
One
Eighteen years later
“Rigelian fever, Captain. There’s no doubt about it.”
Spock overheard the doctor’s report from his station on the bridge of the U.S.S Enterprise. The young science officer listened intently while simultaneously monitoring sensor readings of the surrounding space. As the ship was presently conducting a routine survey of an uninhabited star system, no other urgent matters required his attention. He suspected that the rest of the bridge crew was also paying close attention to the conversation in the command well.
“How bad is it?” Captain Christopher Pike asked, getting straight to the point. Still in the prime of life, he was a fit Earthman of North American descent, with an athletic build, dark hair, and icy blue eyes that conveyed both keen intelligence and concern. His gold command turtleneck uniform contrasted with the blue science tunic Spock wore. A strong chin rested thoughtfully on his knuckles. “How many crew members are affected?”
“It’s spreading fast,” Doctor Phillip Boyce said gravely. The older man, clad in a standard blue medical jumpsuit, stood by the captain’s chair at the center of the bridge. Thinning silver hair and lean, deeply lined features betrayed that he was approaching retirement age, at least by human standards. An Earth symbol was emblazoned over his heart, indicating that he had received the bulk of his medical training on his home planet. “My sickbay is filling up and more crew members are showing symptoms by the hour. I’ve instituted standard quarantine procedures, but I’m afraid that amounts to locking the barn door after the horse has already bolted. We could be looking at a full-fledged outbreak here.”
“Damn,” Pike muttered under his breath. A serious expression grew even more somber. “Can you treat it, Doctor?”
“I’m trying,” Boyce said, “but this appears to be an unusually virulent new strain of the disease, which is proving resistant to conventional treatment.” He shook his head ruefully. “I might as well be handing out su
gar pills . . . or martinis.”
Pike nodded. “What about unconventional treatments?”
“Funny you should ask,” Boyce answered. “I’ve been scouring the medical literature—in my copious spare time, of course—and there are reports of a radical new treatment that has yielded some promising results so far. It’s highly experimental, though, and has barely begun clinical trials on humans.” He frowned. “I’d hate to turn our crew into guinea pigs.”
Spock understood that Boyce was not speaking of a literal metamorphosis, but was merely employing a quaint human idiom. He made a mental note to review the relevant literature on this new treatment at the first opportunity. Medicine was a science, despite the doctor’s occasional protestations to the contrary, and biochemistry was but one of many disciplines in which Spock prided himself on being well-versed.
“We may have no other choice, Doctor.” Pike glanced toward the navigation station. “Mister Tyler, how far to the nearest Starfleet medical facility?”
Spock had already performed the necessary calculations in his head, but let Lieutenant José Tyler carry out his duties. Years of serving aboard the Enterprise had taught Spock that humans sometimes reacted negatively to being “shown up” by another, particularly where their own responsibilities and fields of expertise were concerned. It was an illogical and emotional response—data was data after all—but, in this instance, there appeared to be no compelling reason to answer the captain’s query before Tyler did. The young Earthman was a skilled and highly capable navigator. An extra moment would make no significant difference.
“Starbase 17 is closest,” Tyler reported promptly. Blond hair and boyish features made him seem even more youthful than his actual years. “But even at top speed, it will take us weeks to get there.”
Four point zero eight weeks, Spock thought. To be precise.
“Weeks we may not have,” Boyce said. “We haven’t lost any crew members yet, but you know how nasty Rigelian fever can be if not treated. It can go from basic to pneumonic to septic in a matter of days, leading to shock, seizures, and eventually death.”
“You don’t have to paint a picture for me, Doctor,” Pike said. “All right, then. What do you need to carry out this experimental new treatment, if necessary?”
“That’s where it gets tricky,” Boyce confessed. “The treatment requires significant quantities of a rare mineral substance called ryetalyn, which is not commonly found on Federation starships . . . or most anywhere else for that matter.”
“So where can we get our hands on some of this . . . ryetalyn?” Pike asked, trying out the unfamiliar word. He had never heard of this mineral before, despite all his years exploring the stars.
“The devil if I know,” Boyce said. “Did I mention it was rare?”
“A search of the ship’s computer libraries may yield the nearest source of the mineral,” Number One suggested from her post at the helm. A dark-haired Illyrian woman whose cool composure and formidable intelligence often reminded Spock of his own people, the Enterprise’s first officer turned her gaze toward the science station. “Mister Spock?”
“The computer is processing the request,” said Spock, who had already initiated a search of that nature. A hard-copy printout issued from the computer terminal, and Spock swiftly scanned the document. “According to past surveys of this sector, ryetalyn can be found on Cypria III, an alien colony precisely 61.09 hours from our present location.”
“Good work, Mister Spock,” the captain said. “So what do we know about this place?”
Spock called up a full report on the planet, and was preparing to summarize it, but Number One spoke up first, rendering his efforts redundant.
“Cypria III is a Class-M planet colonized by a humanoid species over a century ago, not long before its parent world abandoned its expansionist space program following a period of political and economic turmoil. The future Cyprians, in particular, emigrated in search of a younger and less developed world that was in a more natural state, as opposed to the heavily mechanized and industrialized culture that had overrun their homeworld. Although they maintain cultural ties to their planet of origin, the Cyprians have been largely independent for generations—and inclined to remain so. Their infrequent encounters with Starfleet have been peaceful to date, but they have expressed little interest in joining the Federation. Deeply attached to their adopted world and its rich natural bounty, they seldom venture beyond their own system and have no significant space force to speak of.”
Pike regarded her with a bemused expression. “And you knew all that off the top of your head?”
“I have an eidetic memory,” she reminded him. “And I endeavor to be informed on the regions of space through which we travel.”
“Of course.” Pike cracked a rare smile. “I expect nothing less from you, Number One.”
Spock was impressed as well. Not for the first time, he reflected that the first officer would fit in well on Vulcan, perhaps even better than he did. He felt a twinge of envy, laced with a certain bitterness, but dismissed the emotion as unworthy of his Vulcan heritage and training. He could not allow his human side to distract him from his duty. The ship needed him to be at his best.
“Captain,” he said. “You should be aware that Cypria III is located near territory presently claimed by the Klingon Empire.” He called up a star map that appeared upon the main viewer at the front of the bridge. Dotted lines indicated areas of Klingon influence, while an illuminated yellow circle represented the Cyprian star system. “The precise borders are disputed, but, as you can see, Cypria III is less than a light-year beyond the edge of the contested region.”
“Terrific,” Pike muttered with what Spock recognized as sarcasm. “And what are the Cyprians’ relations with the Klingons like?”
“Frosty,” Number One said. “As noted before, the Cyprians value their independence. They are no more interested in becoming vassals of the Empire than they are in joining the Federation, although their uncomfortable proximity to the Klingons may be another reason they’ve kept the Federation at arm’s length to date. Joining the Federation might be seen as a provocative act by their Klingon neighbors. Better for all concerned, perhaps, if Cypria maintains its neutrality where the Klingons and the Federation are concerned.”
“A logical policy,” Spock observed, appreciating the colony’s position. “Positioned between two superpowers, Cypria is well-advised not to take sides.”
Although the Klingons had yet to start a war with the Federation, as the Romulans had done nearly a century ago, relations between Starfleet and the Klingons had been growing steadily more confrontational over the last several years, as both parties expanded outward across the galaxy and extended their realms of influence. The Klingons, in particular, tended to be very territorial when it came to vast swaths of space. There were those who said that war was inevitable, perhaps in less than a decade, although Pike wanted to think that peace was always a possibility.
“Well,” Pike said, “let’s hope that neutrality doesn’t extend to denying us assistance during a medical emergency, and that the Klingons feel the same way.” The map on the screen gave way to a view of the stars ahead. “Mister Tyler, set a course for Cypria III, but let’s stay well clear of that blurry border.”
“Aye, sir,” the navigator said.
“Speed, Captain?” Number One asked from the helm.
Pike glanced at Boyce, whose grim countenance conveyed a definite sense of urgency.
“Engage hyperdrive,” the captain said. “Warp factor seven.”
“Yes, sir.” She peered into the gooseneck viewer at her station and waved her hand over the helm controls, which responded to her precise gestures. “Warp factor seven.”
The Enterprise’s powerful warp engines activated, distorting space-time to propel the ship far beyond the speed of light. Within moments, they had left the unexplored solar system far behind and were hurling through deep space toward the Cyprian system. Spock’s keen ea
rs heard a crewman coughing hoarsely over by the engineering station. Glancing across the bridge, he saw that Ensign Hawass looked pale and feverish. The man’s hands trembled as they passed over his control panel. His breathing was labored.
Alert to the crewman’s distress, Pike swiftly relieved Hawass from duty and ordered him to sickbay, but it was clear that quarantine measures had indeed proved ineffective. The fever was at loose aboard the Enterprise, and not even the bridge was safe.
Pike frowned as he watched Hawass exit via the turbolift.
“What was that you were saying about barn doors, Doctor?”
* * *
“You asked to see me, Captain?”
Spock entered the briefing room to find Captain Pike reviewing a stack of status reports on the ship’s systems. Pike’s preference for hard-copy documents was a personal eccentricity the crew had come to indulge, despite the fact that printed reports were clearly destined for obsolescence. Spock did not fault the captain for this singular predilection; in the four years that he had served under Pike, he had never observed the captain’s fondness for print to have any impact on his judgment or leadership abilities. Pike’s command was exemplary.
“That’s right, Mister Spock.” Pike looked up from his papers and gestured toward an empty chair. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Spock took a seat at the conference table. The viewscreen at the end of table currently displayed images of the colony on Cypria III from past Starfleet expeditions to the planet. A large urban metropolis indicated an advanced and thriving civilization, with technology comparable to the Federation’s. Skyscrapers and maglev train tracks denoted both prosperity and progress. Lush greenery testified to the planet’s flourishing ecosystem. Spock found it unsurprising that most Cyprians saw little need to leave their world, which appeared generously well-suited to humanoid life.
“Does this concern the present medical emergency?” he asked. “I’ve taken the liberty of familiarizing myself with—”
